


A Good Boy

by Shush7



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Timmy's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-03-30 13:42:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13952796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shush7/pseuds/Shush7
Summary: I hated that I still remembered how hot his skin had felt against mine in the cool air when we filmed the night Elio and Oliver finally came together as one. The way his body was pressed against my completely uncovered flesh like a furnace, his bare leg tangled between mine, the short hairs on his legs tickling the insides of my thighs, and how I had tried to wish away my burning arousal by closing my eyes and focusing on anything, anything other than his weight next to me, on me. I recall almost being able to taste the air he was breathing through his lips, we were so close. How badly I had wanted him to touch me then, me and not Elio.





	A Good Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I unfortunately don't own Timothée and/or Armie, this is all pure fiction. However, I wouldn't be opposed to owning them, or one of them, so if anyone can hit me up..?
> 
> Oh boy, fictional Timothée and Armie just have a mind of their own. Whenever I have a plot in place, it just gets away from me.
> 
> PS. This can also be viewed as a sequel to "It Only Happened in a Dream" if you'd prefer :).
> 
> Wow I suck at these intros. I'm just gonna wrap this up for now. Enjoy Timmy's POV!

 

 

 

 

 

"Please," I begged, "please just tell me to go. To go and never look back, because I swear, Armie, if you won't tell me to stop, I will never stop. I _can't_ ever stop."

"Please tell me to go," I repeated and shook my head in defeat, still pleading, still looking at him.

He took a step towards me, and I, as if I couldn't bear to be closer to him than this distance separating us now, took a step back. "Don't," I said. He stilled.

"I don't want you to go," he said, sounding almost as desperate as I felt.

"I _love_ you." The words out of my mouth sounded almost like an accusation. And really, they were one. "I fucking love you, Armie, do you understand that? You're my end game, Armie. There is no possible way I can ever feel something like this for anyone else. Never. Not ever."

He had to understand how desperate I was. I didn't want this, I couldn't want it. I certainly didn't need this, but I simultaneously needed it so badly.

But how am I supposed to fight a feeling? Let reason hold the reins? How can I possibly expect to reason away love so strong that I feel my body slightly jerk every time he or anyone else catches me staring at him, especially if I I'm not supposed to be looking. And when am I ever supposed to be looking, really?

But _supposed to_ has had very little to do with all of this. Just like that summer we first met – it was supposed to be just a summer, a summer like any other had been, remnants of which would fade soon after fall fell upon us and the sun was no longer stroking our skins. Perhaps a summer that would change my life as an actor, if all went well – and it had, the movie showing everyone what I can do, how well I can perform. How well I can act.

_A young mastermind,_ they had said _._ Praise. Followed by an Oscar nomination and more praise. What a fucking sham. _I wasn't even acting._

One thing was for sure - whatever I had expected or hadn't, the summer was never _supposed to_ change the very core of _me._ But oh how ridiculously pliant I had been in his hands at 19, every touch of him on my less experienced body equaling either a flutter in my stomach, a hitch of breath or a wrecked moan. Perhaps all three.

It felt as if the ways he had touched me had molded me into a new person. Armie, the sculptor, Timothée, the sculpture. So it was really him who had been the mastermind all along.

 "It seems like that now, Tim, I know it seems like that now, but you will meet a lovely girl-- or a boy, or a-- a woman, man, and you will forget this feeling. I swear, it will pass. I'm so sorry," and he reached for me, stepping closer, crossing the imaginary red line I had drawn. "No," I breathed, shaking my head, feeling the curls bounce on my face, "no, Armie, please."

 

He kneaded his fingers through my hair, tugging just ever so slightly to make me look up at him. "I'm so sorry, Timmy. I don't want you to hurt, I never wanted you to hurt." His voice was merely a whisper.

"You're not making it better," I breathed and closed my eyes, leaning into his hand caressing my hair. "Please," I almost moaned, "please, I just need-- please, Armie."

I hated that I still remembered how hot his skin had felt against mine in the cool air when we filmed the night Elio and Oliver finally came together as one. The way his body was pressed against my completely uncovered flesh like a furnace, his bare leg tangled between mine, the short hairs on his legs tickling the insides of my thighs, and how I had tried to wish away my burning arousal by closing my eyes and focusing on anything, anything other than his weight next to me, _on me_. I recall almost being able to taste the air he was breathing through his lips, we were so close. How badly I had wanted him to touch me then, me and not Elio.

For him to place soft kisses on my neck, stroke my cheek with his big hands, gently caress my skin with his fingertips down from the collarbone to my protruding hipbones. To love me despite me being a skinny unexperienced kid, to perhaps love me _because_ of it. To even pet my hair because I was such a good good boy then, looking at him with puppy eyes, naive and so in love, as he was like a Greek god to me.

How soft my want had been for him then. How gentle, innocent, loving. I had wanted him to take care of me, whisper sweet nothings into my ear, push back the dark curls from my face when they got longer to make room for kisses on my cheeks and forehead. Shower me with love, say I've been good because I had been, at least for him, for him I was always good. Call me _baby_ , call me his.

But that had been almost two years ago. And whatever two years does to a man, it does much more to a boy. And however badly I had wanted to be a man, I was still only a boy because I loved him as a boy. As a child who wants something and however unlikely he is to have it, still wants and continues to want stubbornly, obstinately, throwing temper tantrums if necessary. And I did want him that way, realizing there was no way I could or should have him, but still wanting and wanting adamantly, constantly, resolutely.

What those two years of relentless want had done to me was I no longer wanted him softly, I no longer wanted him to caress me lovingly and call me baby. I felt past that. The fire had been burning for too long and it had only grown with time.

I wanted him to just take me, have me, wreck me. To simply snap after yet another red carpet event, us posing together like brothers to fool not only the world but also ourselves, and just drag me by my suit collar into an empty room, push me down on the bed or, if no bed is in sight, against a wall, hold both of my skinny wrists in his strong grip, bruise my body with his mouth and hands to show whose I was and whose I had always been to take. I wanted for him to hurt me because when he did, then maybe the hurt on the outside would drain away the hurt I had already felt for too long on the inside.

I had pictured standing in front of the mirror, trying to match my smaller hands on the fingertip shaped bruises left by him on my narrow hips so many times that it felt like a memory of events as real as my longing for him was. To fit my hands and push on the bruises formed on my neck or my wrists, an aftermath of his rough treatment of my body.

Did love come with a prescribed expiry date? Because the way I felt for him now seemed like my love for him had rotten. I wasn't so far gone to not realize that this was wrong, that it shouldn't feel like this. But I still refused to throw the love away. Perhaps I was hoping it was edible nevertheless.

_If I could just have a taste._

He was so close now I could feel his breath on my forehead. "Please tell me no, please tell me to stop, to just go," I pleaded again, quietly.

He brought his other hand on my waist and pulled me flush against him. "God, Armie, you're so fucking selfish," I moaned, pushing my cheek against his shoulder, body going limp against his.'

 

"I never said I wasn't," he sighed against my neck and, bringing his lips down, put his mouth on me - it couldn't be called a kiss, it was just a _taste_ , his tongue softly touching my neck. I shivered, "Armie".

His tongue traced the path of a few solitary freckles on my neck leading up to my left ear. When he grazed his teeth just slightly against my skin, I felt completely stripped of all power. Him just holding me up while I melted against him, his body still the furnace I remembered from two years ago.

I was okay with giving away the power and the control - I didn't want it anyway. It was easier to give it to him and not be blamed for whatever would happen next. I never wanted to wreck anyone's life or family. I didn't want to be responsible for it. I loved his family too much for it to happen. But I loved him more, enough for it to happen anyway.

And, in a way, he had always had control of us, of me. Every flick of his wrist a pull on my heartstrings.

But now, now he was pressed against me and I had been deprived for so long I didn't know where to touch him, I wanted everything and I wanted it _now_.

I tried to push myself closer to him, my hands that had been hanging limply on the sides finally coming to life, clawing at his back, his shoulders, grabbing his hair. I pushed myself up onto my toes to reach his face, to look up at his blue eyes almost completely overtaken by the black pupils, and _oh he was both terrified and so aroused, I arouse him, I terrify him, he wants it_ , and then I just pressed my slightly open lips against his.

I had been starving for him for ages and one should never lead a starved man to a buffet, otherwise he will consume and consume until he simply dies because it's too much. I felt like the dying man at the buffet, kissing Armie hungrily like my life depended on it, eyes closed, breathing him in.  
_  
If I died consuming him, perhaps he would end as well and no one else would ever have him again. I couldn't be the first, but maybe would be the last._

I was simply being greedy, trying to take everything all at once, my tongue on his lips, in his mouth, my teeth sinking into his lower lip, making him moan, while my hands at his waist were leading him back against the wall about a meter away. I wanted him to pin me against it, cover me with his body, trap me so I could feel how much taller and stronger he was. _So that I would be at his mercy and he could take what he pleases._

The pushing seemed to have a desired effect because his hand grabbed me by the hair and pulled, just pleasureably painful enough to make me gasp, to make me remember that he was the one really in control and not I.

"God, Timmy I love your hair." He sounded so rough, out of breath. _Because he wants it too._

I pushed myself closer to him again so he could feel how hard I was. "Great," I breathed, looking him dead in the eyes, "you can pull it when you fuck me, then."

His breath hitched and I couldn't help but smile at that. I wanted my words to affect him, to make him moan and gasp and completely forget himself by any means necessary. To come undone, let go and take what he wanted.

"Timmy, I--," he started, but I cut him off with a brutal kiss, leading my hands on his hips again and starting walking us towards the wall again. He didn't resist anymore. I still wanted him to.

When we hit the wall, I pulled my lips off of his and started kissing down his neck, opening the first buttons of his navy blue dress shirt.

"Timmy, I really think we--," he tried again through his kiss-swollen lips, still breathless, but I didn't want him to finish. " _I really think_ we should lose all the clothes and then you should fuck me against this wall," I smirked, knowing exactly what those words were doing to him, "I want you to ruin me like I ruined that fucking peach, Armie."

I could see him swallow heavily at that implication. I was still smirking, my right hand slowly sliding down his chest, his stomach, right to his obviously very hard-- "No, stop, Tim, just-- just please stop for a second."

I froze in place. How did-- had I read the situation wrong? How the fuck do you read a situation like this wrong? We were both visibly very turned on, he had pulled my hair, he had-- "What?" I asked with my brows raised, possibly sounding incredulous.

He pushed me aside, holding out his left hand to keep me at a distance and simultaneously raising his his right hand to his face, rubbing his eyes and temples. "Oh god, Tim, I just--." He was looking down, shaking his head.

I stood there dumbstruck. "What the fuck, Armie?!" I practically yelled, "Now you suddenly don't want me anymore? What was it? The kiss not being as good as you remember? Or is it the problem that I'm ME for once and not Elio?"

He was still shaking his head and looking anywhere but at me.

"WHAT, ARMIE? Did you suddenly recall you had a wife? How is she, by the way? And the kids, huh?" I spat, sounding completely evil. "Better stop before this counts as cheating, right?"

The hurt was too much, I couldn't stop shaking.

"Whatever physical thing could never be a bigger betrayal for Elizabeth than my feelings for you," he raised his eyes to meet mine, sounding so calm.

I suddenly felt so ashamed at my outburst. Like a child. Throwing temper tantrums when things didn't go my way.

Then it hit me, "Wait, what?"

"God, Timmy, I love you so much," he was still looking at me, shaking his head slightly as if it pained him to say those words, "I would never--," he seemed to be holding back tears, "I would never want to ruin you-- and--," he swallowed audibly, "and the fact that you think I want to ruin you or that you _want_ me to ruin you, God, you must think I'm a monster."

"Ar-," I needed to explain, but he didn't let me. "No, please, just let me say my piece." I nodded, looking down.

"Please look at me, Timmy," he touched his left hand to my chin and raised my eyes to meet his, "I love you so much and I am so incredibly sorry that you have been hurting. I would never, and I swear to you, Tim, I would never in a million years want to hurt you or want you to hurt because of me. And you obviously have hurt and I am so sorry. This doesn't fix anything, but I'm, I'm also hurting-- constantly, because I just--," he sighed, "I just want to take care of you, hold you, kiss your beautiful pale skin everywhere. You are the most precious person in this world, Timmy, you are the most caring, loving, talented soul and I love you so much because of it."

I hadn't allowed myself to cry for so long, but I couldn't stop the tears from falling now. He caught them all with his palms cupping my cheeks. I didn't even realize I was shaking my head and repeating the word "no" before he said "yes" a million times and leaned in to kiss away the tears, pulling me into an embrace so tight I could barely breathe.

"I'm sorry for what I said, Armie," I finally whispered after several minutes.

"I'm sorry for everything, precious," he whispered back.

"I know you are."

We stayed there for a while, just hugging, until he finally walked us over to the other side of the room, sat on the couch and pulled me on top of him. I fit into his arms perfectly. As he was slowly combing his fingers through my hair, I couldn't help but think that maybe I still needed the softness, the gentle caresses, the sweet nothings. I wasn't okay yet, but maybe I would be. Maybe _we_ would be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Your feedback means the world to me! *subtle hint*


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